


when Harry met Sally (and then Sherlock Holmes)

by Etharei



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Minor Character(s), POV Minor Character, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Watson hadn’t expected the Met, and possibly the British government, to be this keen on locating her missing brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when Harry met Sally (and then Sherlock Holmes)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC TV)  
 **Pairing:** implied Sherlock/John, ref. to Harry/Clara  
 **Rating:** PG for language  
 **Wordcount:** ~5,500  
 **Summary:** Harry Watson hadn’t expected the Met, and possibly the British government, to be this keen on locating her missing brother.  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters mentioned herein; they’re based on the BBC modern adaptation of Arthur Conan Doyle’s works. No profit was made in the writing or posting of this piece of fiction.  
 **Notes:** Initially inspired by [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=32606551#t32606551) at the [Sherlock kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com) but it kind of went sideways. Brit-picking by **red_sherlock** on AO3, thanks bb ♥ My first Sherlock fic :-)

  


  
_**when Harry met Sally (and then Sherlock Holmes)** _

Her head hurts. It’s not exactly a new sensation for her, but this flavor of hurt is different, more immediate than the morning hangovers she’s come to think of as old friends. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d passed out and hit her head on something, but if she’s finally cracked her skull open then she probably should do something about it. _Not the done thing, bleeding out into the carpet, hah._ Except, that doesn’t feel like carpet under her. There’s a voice quite close by, talking. Gentle, female. _Not Clara_ , and she can’t tell if this makes her feel better or worse.

Blinking her eyes open almost makes her throw up, but it passes, and an unfamiliar face swims into view. The woman is gorgeous, because her luck just runs like that, meeting beautiful women while in the least sexy situations ever. Her brain’s probably splattered everywhere.

“... looks worse than it is, just stay with me until the ambulance gets here,” the woman is saying to her. “Can you tell me your name, love?”

Her tongue feels strange in her mouth, but she does her best to reply, “Harry, short for Harriet.”

A big grin appears on the woman’s face. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Try not to laugh – my name’s Sally.”

It takes a couple of seconds for Harry to get it, and she ends up laughing anyway. Her head doesn’t appreciate it, but it doesn’t feel as bad as it did earlier. Harry even tries sitting up.

“No, stay where you are,” says Sally sternly. The easy steel in her voice is really hot. “Head injuries are tricky, better to wait until the paramedics have checked you over. And there’s a chance you’ve sustained some neck or spinal trauma.”

“Are you a doctor?” asks Harry, smiling. Johnny would love that, her hooking up with a doctor. Something nags at her, then, something important that she’s forgotten.

“No, I’m police,” answers Sally.

“Oh.” Harry’s about to follow-up with something about _handcuffs_ and _uniforms_ , but suddenly she remembers, “Shit, I was mugged-“

“It’s all right,” interrupts Sally soothingly, reaching over and taking Harry’s hand. “They’re gone now, you’re safe. I came ‘round the corner just as one of them shoved you at a bollard and you hit your head. They were already running away before I could get to you. Don’t think they even took anything, you still have your purse and your mobile.”

Sally’s calm tone does more to calm Harry down than her words. She remembers shouts, hands grabbing her roughly, her panicked struggles. And something – a detail that she can’t quite remember, but she knows it’s important. _Bloody lot of good you are_ , she thinks at her uncooperative brain.

But the ambulance gets there and within minutes Harry’s lying on a back board. She’s relieved when Sally climbs in after her, flashing her police badge. Harry suspects she’s actually well enough to sit up, her head’s the only thing that’s hurting now, but after Sally described the way she’d hit the bollard, the paramedics insist on being careful, fastening a brace around her neck and telling her to keep still.

“Is there any family you’d like me to call for you, love?” asks Sally, once they’re on their way.

And that’s when Harry remembers. She instinctively tries to sit up, but the paramedics’ hands are quick and keep her down. “My brother – he was with me, he was fighting the muggers. I have to – wait, _you’re_ police, Sally, you have to do something!”

Sally leans over and makes soothing noises again. “It’s all right, Harry, I’ll do my best to help. Just tell me what happened.”

Harry tries to nod, but is hampered by the neck brace. Most of the memories have come back now, aside from some fuzzy parts, and she tries to work out the sequence of events. “I was gonna meet up with my little brother, Johnny, for dinner tonight. We’d planned for pasta, nothing fancy, but around noon he texted me that there’s this new seafood place he’d heard about, asked me to get the address. I got annoyed with him, because he _always_ does things like that, making decisions without asking other people. Gave him a piece of my mind and sent him the address, anyway – we’ve never got on but it’s been getting better, you know? And since the seafood place is close to where I work, I told him to just meet me at the bus stop. He ran late, as always. I waited a bit. He showed up. We’d barely said hi to each other when these guys came out of nowhere and jumped us.”

“Did you see any of their faces?”

“No, it was dark and they had hoods up.” This is the fuzzy bit, partly because a lot had happened in a short time and partly because Harry doesn’t _want_ to remember. Sally seems to understand, because she doesn’t press Harry, only nods and smiles kindly at her. “I... don’t really know what happened next. I remember Johnny shouting, I think he punched someone, but there were at least five of them. They dragged us apart, and next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground.”

Sally pats her reassuringly on the shoulder. “I didn’t see your brother, but it was dark and there were a lot of people in the way. I’m going to have someone look around in the area.”

Harry suddenly feels cold. “Oh God, what if he’s dead? I didn’t even remember about him until you asked, I’m in an ambulance after a bump to the head and he could be-”

“Harry, Harry, look at me,” orders Sally. Her eyes are kind but commanding, and so reminiscent of Johnny. “He’s probably out cold somewhere, like you were – maybe the muggers roughed him up a bit, but a lot of street gangs avoid killing, it draws too much attention to them. Don’t assume worst case scenario until we know more, all right? I’ll call the station and one of my colleagues can sweep the area.”

Harry nods, taking deep breaths to calm down. “Thank you. I just – we fight a lot, Johnny and I, but he’s still my baby brother. ‘Course, you’d think it’s the other way around, the way he goes on at me about taking care of myself. Like _he_ can talk, with all the scars he’s got.”

“Oh, I have three brothers, I can relate,” says Sally with a sympathetic smile, digging out her mobile.

Now that she’s started talking, Harry doesn’t feel like stopping. It’ll keep her brain from imagining her brother bleeding out in dark alley somewhere. “Anyway, we’ve been doing better. We talk more. He actually tells me things now, sometimes. And he’s got a blog, though the stuff he puts on there, it’s like those stories people write based on shows on the telly or something. I guess it’s better than some things, better than… taking after our dad and drinking, that’s what Johnny says. But sometimes I wonder if he’s not gone a bit weird in the head. One of these days I’m gonna tell him, straight out, _sorry the real world isn’t exciting enough for you Johnny, send us a postcard when you have time_. Honestly, you should see the stuff he writes about.”

Sally, bless her, nods at Harry like she’s actually listening, while reading out the address where she’d found Harry to whoever she’s got on the phone. Harry sighs, stares up at the ceiling of the ambulance. “That’s another thing – you’d think I’d be used to this by now. Worrying about him, I mean, not head injuries. He joined the army and didn’t tell anyone in the family until he’s about to be bloody deployed, if you can believe that. There I was thinking, _he’s finished med school, he’ll be a doctor, most dangerous thing that can happen to him is an alien flu epidemic or kids projectile vomiting_ , and he goes to bloody Afghanistan-”

“Harry?” Sally interrupts. Harry looks back at her and sees a weird expression on her face. “What’s your brother’s name?”

Oh, right. That would probably help, if someone’s going to be looking for him. “Well, I call him Johnny, but only because he doesn’t like that. He answers to John. Um, John Watson.”

Sally’s eyes widen. She fumbles with the phone in her hand, almost dropping it as she presses it back to her ear. “Never mind, Anderson, pass me to Lestrade. I’ll explain later. _Give your phone to Lestrade._ ”

 

At the hospital, a tired-looking doctor determines that Harry has a concussion but likely nothing worse, and sends her to get an x-ray to rule out a fracture. Harry is in the waiting room when Sally returns, followed closely by a tall, somber-looking man.

“Ms. Watson?” says the man, holding out a hand. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Harry stands up a little bit too quickly, but shakes his hand as steadily as she can. “Something’s happened to Johnny, hasn’t it?”

“We’ve just started looking for him, Ms. Watson, but my men will call me the moment they find anything,” says the DI. “I just wanted to come by and ask you some questions, maybe you’ll remember something that’ll help us find him.”

Harry nods. “I really don’t remember much more than what I’ve told Sally.”

“Maybe you can go through it for me again?”

Harry tells him what she remembers. Nothing new pops up, though she’s more confident now that there’d been six attackers. “They had their hoods up so I couldn’t see their faces. Thank goodness Sally showed up before they could take anything, but I don’t know what’s happened to Johnny.”

“Have you checked that they didn’t take anything?”

“Yeah, nothing’s missing, not even my wallet or jewelry.”

The DI shares a look with Sally. “Did they say anything about what they wanted?”

“No. Well,” Harry frowns, “I don’t really remember. It all happened so fast.”

Another look passes between the two. Harry realizes that, for all their reassurances, the detectives appear _worried_. They excuse themselves and move a small distance away. But the waiting room is quite small and practically empty and Harry has good hearing, which she helps by subtly moving a couple of chairs closer.

“Do you think he knows yet?”

“It hasn’t been two hours, and John’s meant to be having dinner with his sister, so there’s time. Probably.” A gruff sigh from Lestrade. “Not sure which is worse – me calling him or him finding out on his own.”

“Maybe he’s arse-deep in one of his mad experiments and won’t surface until tomorrow. Maybe he won’t even notice.”

“Come on, Donovan, it’s _John_.”

A pause. “You’re not worried about John, you’re worried about what the freak might do.”

“That’s not true. Besides, from where I’m standing, it’s all the same thing.”

And then Harry’s being called to get her x-ray. When she returns to the waiting room, the detectives are gone, though Sally’s sent her a text telling her that they’ve gone to the scene of the mugging. Harry is thinking about going to get some coffee when she becomes aware that there’s a man in the waiting room who hadn’t been there earlier, and he’s staring straight at her. He’s sitting primly on one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs, wearing a posh suit and holding an umbrella.

“Ms. Watson,” he greets her somberly. Taps the chair opposite him with the umbrella. “Please, have a seat.”

It’s the spookiest thing to ever happen to Harry, on top of having been _mugged_ , so she swallows her instinctive smart remark and sits down. A moment later, a woman materializes between them and somehow hands Harry a Starbucks cup of coffee while the other hand works fiendishly on a Blackberry.

The coffee is good and hot and exactly how Harry takes it.

The man gazes at her intently. Harry works with businessmen every day; she can tell the difference between men who just like to show off and the ones who actually wield power. She wonders _what the bloody hell_ is going on with this night and what sort of crowd Johnny’s got himself mixed in. And their parents think _he’s_ the sensible one.

“Harriet Watson,” the man finally speaks, startling after the extended silence. “You informed Sergeant Donovan and Detective Inspector Lestrade that you recall six assailants, all of them dressed in black.”

Maybe he was with the police? “That’s right.”

“Are you certain they were all in black? Or did you mean dark clothing?”

Harry frowns, tries to bring up those frantic seconds. “No, definitely black. Or a very dark color, but they were all wearing the same color.”

“Ah, yes, you went to art school for a brief time. You mentioned they were wearing hoods. How did their clothing vary from person to person?”

“How did you-? Look, are you with the police? What’s the point of all of this?” demands Harry.

He gives her a condescending look, and his voice develops an edge it didn’t have before. “The _point_ , Ms. Watson, is that you’re the only person who was with your brother when he was abducted, and your recollection of the events –tenuous as they may be – may provide clues as to the whereabouts of Doctor Watson.”

“ _Abducted_?” She doesn’t quite drop or throw the coffee cup, but it’s a close thing.

“It seems the most likely explanation, given that you are here and he is missing.”

“But what would anyone want with Johnny?”

A strange smile twists up the man’s lips. He seems genuinely amused. “Indeed. Now, Ms. Watson, tell me about their clothing.”

Something in the tone of his voice leaves no room for hesitation. “Um. They had the same clothing. Black jeans, black shirts, black hoodies, with the hood up. Exactly the same.” She blinks. “That’s not normal, is it?”

“Not for your run-of-the-mill, spontaneous street criminals, no,” agrees the man. “And they did not speak to you at all?”

“No, actually, they hardly said anything,” admits Harry, “I think mostly John and I were shouting.”

The man suddenly stands, and this time Harry does spill some of the coffee on her hand. The woman who’d brought it to her immediately hands her a tissue. “I have acquired all the information I needed. If it’s any comfort, your brother isn’t in any serious danger, or at least any more than he faces on a daily basis. In six minutes you will receive a call from Sergeant Sally Donovan, who will inform you that they have found quite a bit of blood in an alley near the site of attack. It is not your brother’s, though he’s responsible for it. It will allow the police to track your assailants. Complete amateurs, clearly, and unlikely to get any better; the abduction they’d been paid to do isn’t going very well for them, I’m afraid. Barring unforeseen developments, this entire ordeal should be wrapped up well before midnight.” He nods at Harry. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Watson.”

Harry stares after the man and… his assistant, probably, as they disappear down a corner. She’s still sitting there with her half-finished cup of coffee when her phone rings, and she dazedly answers Sally’s call.

 

Turns out her head’s not broken after all, and the doctor tells Harry that she can go home if there’s someone there to keep an eye on her. She considers calling up Clara, because getting mugged and waiting to hear if her brother’s dead or kidnapped surely trumps their latest petty row about the old flowerpot set, _of all things_. But Sally returns and, hearing Harry’s predicament, generously invites her to wait at New Scotland Yard.

The night’s twice as cold as Harry remembers, though she wonders if it’s just because of the concussion or the shock or worrying over Johnny. She tries not to think about him being injured, left in some dark alley or wandering around lost. It’s weird because he’d been around guns and _bombs_ in the army, and the worry hadn’t been this sharp, this immediate. But then, she’d never shared his danger before; Afghanistan had been a faraway place that they showed pictures of on the telly.

The cab ride to New Scotland Yard is quiet. Sally, thankfully, isn’t the chattering type, or else she can tell that Harry’s a bit of a mess. The comfortable silence continues as they settle in at Sally’s desk with new cups of coffee.

Harry tracks time by the chirps of texts from Sally’s mobile, mostly updates from DI Lestrade. Sally takes down her official statement. Someone comes by to confirm that the blood they’d found is not John’s, and Harry realizes that she’d believed Mysterious Man With Umbrella And Hot Assistant about that. She doesn’t trust him, but she’d accepted the casually-imparted information as truth.

Suddenly, there’s a commotion from another part of the floor. Sally seems to have been expecting it: she sends a quick text before getting to her feet and walking towards the elevators. Harry only hesitates for a moment before following. Sally quickly intercepts a tall, dark-haired man heading their way.

“Lestrade’s not here, freak,” says Sally in an icy voice, “and you can’t just barge in-”

The newcomer catches sight of Harry, and somehow sidesteps Sally without acknowledging her existence. There’s a cold, determined look to his eyes that makes Harry want to take a few steps back, though she stands her ground.

“Harry Watson,” he says, not even a question – Harry wonders if she’s somehow got her name branded on her forehead tonight. “Did your brother say anything to you during the assault? Did he seem more surprised or angry?”

“Sherlock Holmes, this woman’s just been _attacked_ , you can’t _interrogate_ her-”

The man completely blocks Sally from view as he takes another step to loom over Harry. “ _I need to know_.”

“He was... he was angry,” replies Harry. “Not surprised at all. But, I figured, he’s used to being jumped on the street. From, you know, Afghanistan and army training. I think he just shouted at me to get away, shouted at them to let me go.”

“That narrows things down,” says the man. Sherlock Holmes, Sally had called him. _Oh,_ thinks Harry, finally placing him, _Johnny’s mad flatmate_. Her brother’s blog had been all about how much of a genius this Sherlock is, but he’d never mentioned that the man’s a _looker_ , too. The furthest thing from Harry’s type, and yet she wouldn’t mind looking at him day in and day out.

Being stared at by _him_ , however, is more than a little unnerving. Those cool eyes narrow. “A week ago, the two of you agreed to have dinner tonight at that Italian place on Clerkenwell, then changed plans around noon today. John is remarkably adaptable and naturally accommodating, but you call and discuss your monthly dinners at least one week in advance, and text him to confirm at least once within 72 hours of the arranged time, suggesting that you like structure and keep a schedule of your daily activities. Furthermore, John does not frequent establishments that primarily serve seafood, likely because of his sensitivity to certain species of clam. So why did you suddenly alter your dinner plans tonight?”

“ _Me_? He was the one who suggested the change.”

If anything, Mr. Holmes’ expression grows even more intent, and his eyes turn distant as he starts muttering under his breath. “Interesting. Noon… we would have been at the British Museum… at least three schools on a field trip, mobs of children _everywhere_ , would have been easy to nick his phone and slip it back…”

Sally lets out a snort. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“And yet, you haven’t blocked his number.” Mr. Holmes doesn’t look even look at Sally, and in the next breath, he starts muttering about ambush plans and unexpected variables, Harry has no idea, until he’s interrupted by simultaneous electronic beeps.

Both Sally and Mr. Holmes pull out their mobiles. He turns and strides off without a word, and Harry is following him out of instinct before she can even think about it. Glancing back, she sees Sally’s look of surprise when she realizes the two of them are nearly at the elevators, and the sergeant walks briskly to join them. In the elevator, Sally shows her mobile to Harry.

 **1 new message from Lestrade, G.**   
**Have been found. Only mildly bruised. Pls let my sister know. – JW**

Harry lets out a long breath. Sally smiles at her relief. Mr. Holmes still hasn’t looked at them when he hails a taxi outside, so Harry blinks when he holds the door open and impatiently waves them in. Harry belatedly realizes she has no idea where they’re going, but Mr. Holmes rattles off an address that is several streets away from where the mugging had happened.

The silence in the taxi this time is a lot more tense. Sally keeps glaring at Mr. Holmes, who thoroughly ignores her in favor of staring at Harry. Harry wants to stare back, but for all that she has no problem holding her ground against pompous bastards all day, those pale eyes are plain _unnerving_. She looks out the window instead, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

There’s an ambulance and several police cars when they get to their destination; if her brother hadn’t been found yet, she’d be alarmed by what looks to have been a decent-sized manhunt. Harry immediately spots Johnny talking to DI Lestrade while a medic finishes bandaging his arm. It looks like he’s giving the DI his full attention, until his gaze zeroes in on Mr. Holmes – so quick and from such a distance that he must have been discreetly scanning the area. Harry would laugh, it’s like a soaring-orchestral-music kind of scene, but the look on his face gives her an idea of why he hasn’t said much about his not-bad-on-the-eyes flatmate. _Oh, Johnny._

Mr. Holmes and his long legs can clearly travel at the speed of sound and right through solid objects, because the two men are already ensconced in a quiet conversation by the time Harry gets close and Johnny _finally_ notices her.

“Harry!” he exclaims, going to her and giving her a hug. “Are you all right? I was gonna head over to the hospital after speaking to Lestrade. Would’ve texted you but they damaged my phone and I can’t remember your number.”

“Scalp got a bit scraped and I have a concussion, but nothing too bad.” She looks him over, taking in a bruise developing on his face and the bandaged arm. “I’m glad the police found you, I was worried out of my mind.”

There’s a small cough from DI Lestrade, who looks a bit sheepish. “Actually, he got himself out of trouble. We figured out the abandoned cellar they were taking him to, but by the time we got here,” he points to a rundown building behind them, “he was waiting for us with three of the men knocked out and the others all run off.”

Johnny’s expression turns embarrassed. “None of them had weapons. And I didn’t want to take up police resources.”

Mr. Holmes, hanging back, lets out a disparaging sound, but doesn’t say anything after getting a pointed look from Johnny. The tall man looks as poised and controlled as he had earlier, but Harry can sense the loss of tension, and there’s something territorial in the way he’s watching Johnny without looking like he is.

“And clearly you’ve met, but I feel like I should make proper introductions anyway,” continues Johnny. “Harry, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my sister Harry.”

As if the encounter at New Scotland Yard had never happened, Sherlock nods at Harry and gracefully holds out his hand. “Ms. Watson.”

“Call me Harry, please, Mr. Holmes,” she replies automatically, feeling a bit dazed again.

“Sherlock.”

Johnny looks boyishly pleased at them both, which strikes Harry as vaguely ridiculous since he’s the one who looks like he’s just come out of a brawl. His flatmate just looks impatient to leave. DI Lestrade seems to catch this and interjects, apologetically, “John, I know it’s been a long night, but we’ll need a statement from you. We can go to the hospital first if you want someone to look you over.”

“No, it’s just a few bumps, I’ve had worse at home,” says Johnny dismissively. Harry can’t quite contain her exasperated eye-roll, but she refrains from giving voice to her usual _stop being a bloody idiot and thinking you know better_ rant, so he ignores her look. “I’ll come now. Can someone make sure my sister gets home okay?”

“I’ll take her home,” volunteers Sally.

“Thank you, Sergeant Donovan,” says John, smiling genuinely. “And thank you for taking care of her all night, Lestrade says you’re the one who called for the ambulance.”

“It was no problem.”

Behind Johnny, DI Lestrade turns to Sherlock. “Guess you’ll be coming along too?” Sherlock simply lifts an eyebrow. “Right. In which case, Donovan, you can take the police car and drop Ms. Watson off at home. I’ll take a cab with these two.”

Harry gets another hug from her brother and a promise that he’ll call in a few hours to “explain everything, once I’ve gone over it with Lestrade.”

“You’d better. And you’re going to owe me three dinners just from this.”

A stricken expression crosses his face. “I’m sorry, Harry, I never meant to put you in danger-”

“We’re sorry,” adds in Sherlock. He doesn’t sound very sincere, and something about the way he briefly leans over Johnny’s shoulder to address her makes Harry think of a giraffe sticking its head in. The dumbfounded looks from everyone around her stops her from voicing the comparison though. Sherlock blinks down at Johnny. “It _is_ your participation my work that made you a target this evening, John, and your sister the collateral damage.”

“Well, yes,” says Johnny quietly, still staring. “It’s just not something you usually draw attention to.”

“I deemed it helpful to acknowledge my share of the blame, as otherwise your guilt complex will convince you to limit your interactions with your sister even further, on the irrational belief that you would be protecting her from future injury, which would result in you being tetchy and short-tempered, possibly resentful-”

“Right, that’s enough from you.” Johnny turns back to Harry. She gives him a look. “I guess me and my guilt complex can pop by tomorrow with dinner?”

“Indian, from that place I like down the street.” This may be the longest they’d spoken without either of them making a barbed, passive-aggressive comment since she was a teenager.

“On one condition: when you get home, don’t be afraid to call Clara. Even just to tell her.” Harry nods.

The police car is warm, at least, though Harry has never expected to see the inside of one, even sitting in the front. She gives Sally her address.

“So you guys work with Johnny a lot?” asks Harry.

“It’s more Sherlock, actually,” says Sally, making a face at the name. “But seems like Doctor Watson’s part-and-parcel, these days.”

God, are Johnny’s blog entries actually _true_? “Sherlock is a... consulting detective?”

“That’s what he calls himself. You’ve read your brother’s blog? Well, everyone’s dazzled by how smart he is, but he creeps me right the fuck out.” Sally hesitates. “You know what they say about _he who fights monsters_? I think, for Sherlock, it’s like the other way around. He’s already one, but he’s studied people enough that he can pass for normal. He helps the police because it’s a socially acceptable way for him to get his kicks. But one of these days, he’s gonna snap, get bored of playing human. You can see it in his eyes.”

Harry considers this. “He really is putting my brother in danger, isn’t he?”

Sally gives her an unreadable look. “Think about it. You were only going to have dinner with your brother, and you got attacked. Imagine what it’s like _living_ with Sherlock Holmes – might as well tap-dance naked on the front lines.”

Which basically explains Johnny, is the sinking realization.

They’re turning down Harry’s street when it occurs to her, “Seems like there were a lot of people looking for Johnny tonight. That’s because of Sherlock too, isn’t it?”

Sally scowls. “More like what Sherlock would do if Doctor Watson had gone on being missing. As Lestrade said to the search teams tonight, _Our job is ‘working together for a safer London’, and this definitely falls under that_.”

“Oh.” Harry turns it over in her head. She hates talking about personal matters, her and Johnny both, but she’s pretty sure Sally wouldn’t press. “Johnny and I have never been close, you know. You heard, earlier, he doesn’t know my phone number, and I don’t know his.”

“He doesn’t know mine, either,” says Sally gently, clearly trying to make Harry feel better, “he used Lestrade’s phone, and which would have both mine and Sherlock’s number in the contacts.”

“My point is, we’re barely in each other’s lives,” Harry persists. “And I’m okay with that. I’m saying, it makes me feel better that he has people making sure he’s okay. Even if it’s because of his really spooky flatmate, at the end of the day, Johnny’s looked after, you know?”

Sally looks thoughtful. “Never really thought of it like that.” She smoothly parks the car in a tiny gap.

It’s been a mad, mad night, so Harry feels licensed to be a little poetic. “That quote you mentioned. Maybe Sherlock’s been looking at people, all this time, and Johnny’s the first one who’s really looked back.” Not that her brother’s exactly _well-balanced_. Must be a laugh a minute, in their flat.

On that thought, the more worrying thing would be what those two laugh _at_.

Sally kills the engine. Another thought occurs to Harry. “You know, my brother didn’t even tell me he’d joined the army until a week before he was to leave for Afghanistan.” She looked down at her hands, fingers cradling her purse. “But tonight, he let us know the moment he was safe.”

“Lestrade probably made him, he knew it was a matter of time before Sherlock came looking.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s just, Johnny’s been a one-man show since he was born, you know? But… I reckon you lot weren’t the only ones worried about what Sherlock would do if Johnny wasn’t okay.”

And that makes a difference, too – Johnny caring, _really_ caring, about what it would do to someone else if he disappeared.

It’s late, but a few of the little eateries across the street are still open. Old Mr. Tam, walking past, stares at her getting out of the police car; no doubt the whole building will be gossiping about it in the morning. At least the sirens aren’t on, and Sally’s not even in uniform. _More’s the pity._

“Will you be all right?” asks Sally.

“Yeah,” replies Harry. “I’m going to call Clara. My ex-wife. She’ll jump at the opportunity to nag me every hour to keep me from sleeping.”

Sally chuckles. “That’s good, then. That you have someone.” Harry wants to think that there’s a slight tinge of disappointment in Sally’s voice, but it’s probably best not to trust her judgment while she has a concussion. “Hope I see you again – only, you know, under better circumstances. Actually,” she pulls a small card out of her trouser pocket and hands it to Harry, “if you ever need help, especially if it’s to do with your brother or a certain flatmate of his, gimme a call, yeah?”

“Sure, thanks,” says Harry, smiling wide.

She watches Sally drive away, and her hands shake only a little bit when she unlocks her door. For the first time in years, she doesn’t even glance at the liquor cabinet.

++ end ++

**Author's Note:**

> The quote referred to by Sally:
> 
> "He who fights monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."  
> — Friedrich Nietzsche, _'Beyond Good and Evil'_


End file.
